


Strays

by bosspigeon



Series: A Dangerous Woman [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Animal Abuse Mention, Canon LGBTQ Character, Dogs, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LGBTQ Character of Color, again sorry, brief mention of a slave revolt, canines, danger has a bad habit of collecting strays, he and danger are really close, implied/reference drug use on animals, irresponsible dog collecting, mentions of the other companions, nightstalkers - Freeform, pov arcade gannon, she's coming to ur home and stealing ur dogs, someone stop her, sorry arcade, thats the official(tm) tag for her now, will go into that later, yes her name is danger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not sure if her penchant for collecting strays is a direct result of a gunshot to the brain, but he's not discounting the theory. Either way, Arcade is forced to watch helplessly as his new courier friend brings home literally every down-on-their-luck canine in the Mojave, and some other "friends" too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

It starts with Rex.

When Arcade joins the Courier, she already has the cyberdog at her side, and it seems like they’ve had plenty of time to bond already. He follows her everywhere but the most dangerous places, and in spite of his cold metal body and joints that are sure to pinch if skin or hair get caught in them, he shares her bed as well.

He doesn’t think much of it, really. Many Wastelanders bond strongly with their animals. It gets lonely trekking the Mojave alone, and it’s always a boon to have a staunchly loyal companion to watch your back, especially one with sharp teeth and sharper senses.

He doesn’t think much of it, until they’re put up in the Lucky 38 by the mysterious Mr. House, and it goes from dusty, gloomy tomblike emptiness to bustling hub with each new “friend” the gruff Courier drags home. He doesn’t worry about it. In such uncertain times, connections are important-- vital, even-- especially with people who can handle themselves. Even if those people are matronly Nightkin with massive swords.

It’s not until Danger tromps out of the elevator with a sack of radscorpion poison glands in one hand and a frayed rope leash in the other that Arcade  _ truly  _ begins to worry. At the end of the leash is a wild-eyed feral dog that hugs her side and curls its black lips at anyone that ventures too close. It’s missing an eye, as well as much of its fur, but she parades it to the kitchen like a Best In Show winner, sits down on the floor with her back against the fridge, and hand-feeds the shifty, snarling creature raw iguana bits, stroking its ragged ears and crooning soothingly. As wary as it is, the wild dog takes each morsel from gunpowder-blackened fingers with a velvet-lipped gentleness, and looks at the surly wanderer with big, soft eyes.

She names him Roscoe, and within a week, proper grooming and feeding have improved his temper and his coat. He spends much of the time lazing at her feet or padding after her wherever she goes.

It’s just one stray, Arcade rationalizes. Two dogs? Nothing to fuss over.

~*~*~*~

Not even a full month later, he meets her just outside the gates of the Strip, as per her request request, and he finds her leaning against her big green crate truck. When he calls out to her, she tips up her hat and waves. And then she opens the back of the truck and out scramble three scrawny, twitching mutts sporting makeshift muzzles and open sores. “Got any veterinary experience?” she asks him in a low drawl. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

They have to keep the trio locked in a spare room that only Danger can enter freely, mixing Fixer into their food. It’s a cacophony of yowling and snarling most of the time, but every now and again it fades into piteous whimpering and door-scratching. Then, she disappears into the room with treats in hand. More often than not, she comes out with scratches and bites that need tending, but over the days, injuries become less and less frequent. When she opens the door wide almost three weeks later, it’s to let out three nervous dogs that huddle together and shake and snap when anyone but Danger gets too close.

She calls the biggest one Cash, and once properly taken care of and her sores healed, she’s a pretty fawn color with big white paws. The smaller two, a speckled merle and a runty black and white, she names Gunner and Scout. Roscoe and Rex welcome them with much rear-sniffing and face-licking and it’s not long at all before they’ve settled into a familiar pack structure, with their rangy wanderer at the head.

Five dogs. She’s got five dogs, and that  _ has  _ to be enough. People on the Strip are beginning to take notice of the strange Courier with the key to the Lucky 38 that regularly takes her pack of hounds out for exercise on the Strip.

~*~*~*~

She’s gone for a week straight, and she leaves all five dogs behind. The poor beasts are miserable without their master, but Lily keeps them well-fed and Boone (who, surprisingly enough, seems to be a dog person) provides the same sort of quiet companionship to which they are accustomed. It’s enough to keep them placated until their master’s return. When the elevator dings cheerily after days with no word, they tear out of Danger’s room, baying and howling and leaping to greet her.

She laughs and pets them all as best she can, keeping one hand on the makeshift burlap satchel hanging from one shoulder. It’s lumpy and… squirming?

“Oh no,” Arcade groans. “You  _ didn’t _ .”

She has the decency to look sheepish, at least, as she whistles and waves her hounds back a bit. They line up obediently, ears pricked and heads cocked, as she kneels and gingerly sets down the sack. Out tumble two dusty grey wasteland coyote pups, probably no older than three weeks. For a moment or two, they’re distracted by chewing on one another, but Cash is curious. She lies down and belly-crawls close. The slightest nudge of her nose against its rump is enough to send it bolting between Danger’s legs with a high-pitched yelp, and the other scampers unsteadily after. She chuckles as they peer between her boots at the bigger canines surrounding them, and it takes a bit of coaxing before they’re brave enough to introduce themselves.

She names them Rascal and Kane and feeds them brahmin milk from a jury-rigged bottle. In just a few months they’re lanky, quick-footed hunters that loyally follow their human mother anywhere she’ll let them. Arcade never sees the resemblance between Danger and a coyote more than when he follows her out and watches the three of them loping across the Mojave in perfect tandem, the pups eagerly baiting giant radscorpions and yaoi guai and other such horrors until Danger can line up a killing shot.

The count is at seven, and Arcade desperately hopes it will end there. A part of him knows it won’t. There are just too many strays in the Mojave, and if the sight of their motley crew of humans, robots, mutts and mutants is anything to go by, the Courier is determined to bring as many as possible into the fold.

~*~*~*~

  
She takes him and Rex with her when she’s summoned by Caesar to the Fort, and for once, he’s thankful he doesn’t have to worry about her dragging home another pet, even if his stomach is in knots the entire time. Of course, he is a fool to think something as trivial as a murdering warlord would stop her.

It all happens o quickly he can barely react, the assassination of Caesar and the razing of the Fort. It’s a bloodbath, one that becomes an improvised rebellion when Danger shoves a ballistic fist into a slave woman’s hand and smiles.

And when it’s all over and they’re jumping in the river to make their escape before the rest of the Legion catch on, with a small crowd of former slaves huddling behind them, she finds a single Legion mongrel just inside the wall. The hound is lying pitifully on the ground, looking weak and broken, most likely trampled in the chaos.

It snaps its jaws weakly, slavering and snarling when approaches, but she shushes it, waves the rest of them ahead with Arcade to guide them, and though the woman called Siri gives him a quizzical look, he ushers them, and Rex, along. There is no explaining how a woman who could murder dozens of men without batting an eye could be so gentle with a beast that was trained to tear her throat out. The last he sees of Danger as they crest the hill is her laying a calloused hand gently against the top of the mongrel’s head.

It’s weeks before he sees her again, and when she does finally roll back into the 38, she’s a bit worse for wear, but she’s got a massive, shaggy Legion dog at her side, fierce and proud and sporting shiny new cybernetic hind legs. “Her name’s Ladybird,” Danger says by way of introduction, and Ladybird growls in greeting. She’s not very friendly, even after settling in, and only ever lets Danger touch her. But she’s  powerful and loyal and quite content standing guard at Danger’s bedroom door while the other canids pile into her rapidly shrinking bed alongside their master.

The Lucky 38 has never been more alive, and it’s also never smelled so much like dog, but Arcade would be lying if he said he didn’t prefer the noise and the smells and hustle and bustle to the tomblike silence of before. And at this point, he’s accepted that if there’s anything remotely doglike that catches her eye, Danger is going to drag it home.

~*~*~*~

He really wishes he can claim surprise when she leaves again for another surprise wasteland trek, only to return, stumbling as if drunk and sporting several oozing bites up and down both arms. She’s been bitten by a nightstalker, or several by the looks of it, and he drags her to the kitchen where he can dose her up with enough antivenom to at the very least keep her alive through the night while he treats her. He’s got her dosed, bandaged, and sedated by the time he realizes there’s a tied-up sack on the floor by the elevator, one that even the dogs are wary to get anywhere near. He almost goes to pick it up, but then it squirms and trembles with a very, very familiar little rattle.

“Oh my god,” he groans weakly, resisting the urge to sink down against the wall.

That is how they wind up with a nightstalker, of all things, a hatchling that barely weighs five pounds, but already has enough poison to have the courier bedridden for days. Though, to be fair, anyone else would probably have succumbed to the bites before they hit Vegas. Lily tends to it while Danger’s incapacitated, however much Arcade begs her to kill it, or at least take it out into the Mojave and let it go. By the time the courier is on her feet again, Lily’s got it trained out of its teething and is already working on teaching it tricks. She’s dubbed the venomous little creature Sweet Pea and Danger accepts the name with grace and a pleased little smirk.

The Lucky 38 becomes home to four humans, a ghoul, a supermutant, a robot, and nine canines of various origins, and it is certainly…  _ Lively _ .

He supposes he should just be thankful she hasn’t yet brought back a deathclaw or something.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while back, but since i finally put together Danger's stuff as a pseudo-coherent "series" i figured i'd clean it up for posting! this is one of my favorites. mostly bc i love the "collecting strays-- human or otherwise" trope.


End file.
